What's Your Story?
by Iggycat
Summary: On a whim Arthur applies for an internship at a publishing house halfway around the world. There he gets a new lease on life and he meets someone who offers him the change he's been looking for. USUK. Co-written with the amazing Fakiagirl.
1. Chapter 1

_Iggycat A/N:_ I am very excited to announce this new collaboration that will be a joint effort between myself and one of my favorite fanfic writers, Fakiagirl (who I've linked in my profile and you should definitely check out). We will switch off writing chapters, mine being from Arthur's perspective and hers from Alfred's perspective. On behalf of both of us, I hope you enjoy!

**Disclaimer:** _I own nothing (And neither does Fakiagirl haha.) Rights go to the respective owners. Hetalia belongs to Hidekaz Himaruya._

* * *

I'm not entirely sure if I was allowed to have a mid-life crisis at only 26 years old, but I guess I was always rather precocious**. **My first word was not a word at all but a sentence, "Mummy likes tea," and my mother swears to the fact that I learned to walk in a day, bypassing the process of crawling entirely. By five years old I was reading the equivalent of what a student in Year 7 might study, and I'd promptly fallen in love with literature. Thereafter I took advanced English courses in secondary school and college and eventually graduated from university with a degree in English literature. I was lucky and had found work quickly as a copy editor for a home and gardens magazine based out of Manchester. It wasn't exactly what I wanted but everyone had to start somewhere. I worked tediously, editing stories about the perfect duvet to match lavender walls, and continuously double checking the spelling of kaufmanniana and odontoglossums just to be perfectly sure. The job paid well, but I'd be lying if I said I was completely content. I wanted more than to read about how to pot flowers and the best method for arranging furniture to maximize space. I wanted to advance my career, to travel the world, and I needed something much more interesting in my life. Little did I know my life was about to get _much_ more interesting.

"Ah, Arthur, yes, please sit down," my boss, Mrs. Spalding, a round woman with a reddish nose and graying hair spoke to me over the top of her computer monitor. She was the managing editor of the magazine and ultimately had the last say on what was published.

I pulled the door to her office closed behind me and uneasily took a seat in a very uncomfortable plastic chair. As nice as Mrs. Spalding was, no one really wanted to enter her office alone. A venture into her tidy little workspace meant one of two things. She either wanted your personal opinion on a piece, which doesn't sound horrible, but I can assure you it was. You would sometimes be confined to her office for hours picking apart the pieces of an article that didn't even bear any real importance. But of course, the only other reason she would call you in was much worse.

"How long have you been here, Arthur?"

I knew she already had the answer to the question but she hadn't asked it in a condescending way.

"Three and half years," I answered crossing my right leg over my knee. It was best to act casual, or so I thought.

"Ah that long, really?" She smiled and finally looked away from her computer screen. "Did you know I have a granddaughter about that age? She'll be four in a few months."

It was mid March and for a moment I pondered when the child's birthday might be. May? June perhaps? I smiled back at Mrs. Spalding hoping it looked genuine enough.

"That's lovely," I replied, not knowing what else to say. She returned my smile but then looked away.

"I'm sorry, Arthur. I'm sure you're much more interested in why you're here." She'd guessed correctly. I let out a tense laugh in agreement, but my nerves had shown through. Mrs. Spalding frowned a bit and her chubby face seemed to redden to match her nose. She shuffled through a stack of papers, pulling out a few and looking back at me.

"Arthur, you know the economy's been in quite a slump lately and the company's had to make some very hard decisions."

I knew what was coming.

"You're a great worker, Arthur. I've never seen a more brilliant editor, but," she paused and offered a sad smile as some type of concession. "We can no longer afford to keep you on. I'm very sorry."

She handed me some paperwork and continued to praise me to assure my pride wasn't overly damaged.

The 'brilliant editor' had two weeks to find a new job.

* * *

However, my mid-life crisis hadn't begun at that point. It didn't start as I packed the contents of my cubicle into cardboard boxes, or as the two week mark approached and I realized I would have no job to return to the following Monday. No, my mid-life crisis started on a sweltering day in July, four months after I'd been pulled into Mrs. Spalding's office.

"Arthur!" my manager barked at me and I had to fist my empty hand to resist biting back a nasty reply. "You're at the register today. Get your arse up there." I dropped my cigarette and stomped it out with my heal. Smoking was something I'd stopped but picked up again recently due to stress. Nicotine was heaven for the nerves.

I was working at Asda, as I'd been unable to find any type of editing work. For three and a half months I'd looked desperately, searching not only in my current home of Manchester but in London, Edinburgh, Liverpool, Leeds, anywhere that might house some sort of publishing house. In all that time I'd gotten myself only two interviews, neither of which resulted in a job. I slowly started to lose hope, and in late June I started working at the local grocer because I was running out of money and needed to support myself. So that's how I wound up walking up to the register, a disgruntled mess of a person who I doubt Mrs. Spalding would even recognize.

A man in business attire walked up to me and placed a frozen meal and lemonade on the counter. I scanned both items and tried to ignore the way he was looking me over. He was judging, I knew he was. No doubt he was thinking that I was some useless scum that had dropped out of secondary school at 14 and never dreamt of going to university. Why else would a 26 year old still be scanning frozen tikka masala? That was the point at which my mid-life crisis began. As I bagged the items and said "£2.75," I also involuntarily mumbled out, "What am I doing with my life?"

The man handed me some coins and shook his head as he walked out of the store.

* * *

That night I sat on the sofa with my laptop scouring the internet for hours. I must have checked every city, town, and village in the United Kingdom, and still no one was hiring. It was extremely frustrating and it got to the point where I was typing "what should you bloody do when there are no fucking jobs available?" into yahoo answers. I never expected to actually find a reasonable response.

_There are a few things you can do if you can't find a job in your field..._

I scrolled past some of the advice that suggested going back to school, trying a slightly different type of work, waiting it out, etc. But then I came across something else.

_You might also want to consider looking into paid internships. These may not pay very well at first but they could land you a job at a well-to-do company._

I'd never considered an internship before. Of course I'd taken part in a few back in university to learn the tricks of the trade but I hadn't stayed on with any of the small firms I'd worked for. I guess I'd just never thought of an option that was usually associated with those new to the trade.

I opened a new tab and in the search bar typed out 'paid internship at a publishing company.' Out of curiosity I clicked on the first result, an internship as an associate editor at Golden Gateway Publishing, a company I'd never heard of. I glanced over the job description and was pleasantly surprised at the work it entailed. It was essentially my ideal job. I made sure to check the skill requirements of the position which I most certainly met with the exception of the "ability to learn and understand new technologies quickly" criteria. But aside from that, the position seemed perfect. I'd been about to click to download an application form when I realized I hadn't even checked what part of the UK Golden Gateway Publishing was based in. The answer to my query was that the publishing house was not based in the UK at all but in San Francisco. San Francisco, as in, California, United States of America.

I'd been stupid to blindly look at an internship without even checking where I'd be working. I was smarter than that, and I knew it. How could I have made such a trivial mistake? Deflated, I nearly closed out the tab holding the position, but I couldn't bring myself to do it. The job sounded so lovely, why did it have to be halfway across the world?

I bit my lip and looked away from the screen. But what was stopping me? A mediocre flat, a few sentimental items. I had nothing in England. My family was already spread out across the country and my brother William had even moved to Melbourne only two or three years ago. Why couldn't I do the same?

I pulled up a new tab and googled some pictures of San Francisco. I'd say it took me about eight minutes of looking at photos of the Golden Gate Bridge, Fisherman's Warf, and Lombard Street to fall in love with the city. It took nine minutes to decide to download the internship application, and ten minutes to make a decision that would change my life.

* * *

Two weeks passed with no reply from Golden Gateway. I tried to shake it off, after all it was unlikely that I'd receive a response, but still I was disappointed. I had the credentials, I had the enthusiasm, the talent, and I wanted the position. Every day I spent bagging groceries just reminded me how much I truly wanted a change in my life.

It was late one evening after the usual rush of people coming in to purchase ready-to-eat dinners that my mobile buzzed in my pocket. I sighed, figuring it was one of my brothers. Steven had said he'd be coming up to visit at some point over the summer but never gave me an exact date. _Brilliant_, I thought to myself, planning how I was going to get to the train station to pick him up without a car. By the time I unlocked my phone, I'd decided on taking a cab and dumping the fare on my brother. But it was at that point that I discovered I hadn't received a text message, but a single email in my inbox. It was from an Alfred Jones, someone I'd never heard of.

Cautiously I pressed to open the email, hoping it wasn't a virus. My eyes widened as I scanned the text and I couldn't help but let loose a small smile. Jones was from Golden Gateway Publishing! He was impressed with my resume and wanted me to come in for an interview. I instantly started to type a reply, thanking him, and asking if there was any way we could do the interview over the phone. My mood had improved tenfold and for a good five minutes I just stared at my screen waiting for a reply, not even noticing the elderly woman who had started to load things onto my conveyor belt and who was losing patience as I failed to do my job.

* * *

Three days later I was sat in front of my laptop eagerly awaiting a call from Mr. Jones. He'd suggested a Skype interview rather than a phone call simply because he thought it might be more personal that way. I'd never used the program before, but I assured him I'd download it and that I was looking forward to the interview. In reality I was scared out of my mind that I would do something wrong and obliterate my chances of getting the job, but he needn't know that.

So there I was at my kitchen table in a suit jacket and tie. I was only wearing my briefs on my lower half, partially because it was more comfortable than trousers but mostly because my flat felt like a furnace in the middle of July. But regardless it didn't make much of a difference since my upper half looked dapper and that's all Mr. Jones would see.

I twiddled my thumbs waiting when finally I heard the strange tone that indicated an incoming call. Hastily, I pressed the answer button and waited for the black screen to display Alfred Jones, but it never did.

"Hello?" said a confused voice on the other line. He sounded younger than I expected.

"Yes, hello. Mr. Jones?"

"Alfred. Call me Alfred," the man said and a laugh emanated from the dark screen. There was a brief pause as I faltered and failed to find any words. "Can you see me, Arthur? Because I definitely can't see you."

I flushed, grateful that the man halfway round the world could not see it.

"No, I can't. Did I do something wrong? I'm terribly sorry if I did."

My mind started spinning at a mile a minute. I'd done something wrong already, just in the first 30 seconds of the interview. Fuck! There went my opportunity.

"Did you click 'answer with video'?" Alfred asked, but he didn't sound hostile at all. I bit my lip and answered.

"I can't recall. I'm a bit nervous so I might have accidentally pressed the wro-"

I was cut off by another laugh and for a second I was worried that Alfred thought I was technologically incompetent, which was not completely true.

"Don't worry about it, Arthur. We can do the interview like this. You initially wanted a phone conversation anyway, right?"

I nodded but upon realizing he couldn't see the action I muttered a:

"Yes. Thank you for your patience Mr. Jones."

"Alfred."

I cursed internally, wondering why Alfred even kept me on the line after so many screw ups.

"Oh yes, I'm sorry-"

"Hey Arthur," Alfred cut me off again and I fell silent. "Can you do something for me?"

I raised a brow not having the slightest idea where this was going.

"Yes?"

"Alright, can you relax? I want this to be as painless as possible, 'kay? I wanna be friends, not the scary boss figure that I'm pretty sure you're picturing in your head."

To be honest I was startled by just how casual Alfred was being but I agreed and he let out yet another chuckle.

"Great, so since we're friends why don't we start off by learning a bit about each other? I'll go first."

For about six and half minutes I listened as Alfred quickly summarized his life for me. He was born and raised in Berkeley, right outside of San Francisco. He took several advanced English and science courses in high school but his real passion was history. Alfred worked diligently through those four years and that eventually culminated in an acceptance to Stanford where he majored in the subject he loved so much.

"Stanford was perfect because it wasn't right at home, but it was still close enough that I could go home on the weekends or for an afternoon if I had the time," Alfred had said. "Eventually my parents moved down to L.A., but when I graduated I decided I just couldn't leave this place."

I was fascinated by Alfred's story and wanted to hear more, but before I knew it, it had become my turn to talk.

"So what about you? What's your story?" I could almost hear Alfred smiling on the other end. I think listening to him talk about his life made me feel more comfortable in his presence, or at least the presence of his voice.

"Well, first off I'm from England," I started, and this time when Alfred laughed, I didn't feel so nervous. "I grew up in a little town called Wooler up north."

"Oh cool is it near Liverpool?"

"A bit farther up I'm afraid." Thinking fast I added, "Do you know where Newcastle Upon Tyne is?"

There was a half a second pause before I heard chuckling on the other end.

"I'll take that as a no," I said and found myself grinning.

Alfred drew in a breath before he responded.

"I really need to brush up on my British geography."

After that I found it incredibly easy to talk to Alfred. I told him about my family, my three brothers and what it was like being the youngest. I explained about going to the University of Manchester for schooling and I told him about my job at the magazine and being laid off due to budget cuts. And in between my reminiscing, Alfred entertained me with commentary and tidbits of his own life. The whole conversation felt much more like a chat with a friend at the pub than a job interview.

"You do not have a record signed by Paul McCartney. You're pulling my leg, Alfred."

"No, I swear it's true. My dad had connections."

"Ah, so _that's_ how you got into Stanford," I joked and Alfred grunted thousands of miles away.

"Hey that's not true! I didn't have any help getting in there. It was all me."

I smiled and gave into his pleas, shushing him.

"Hush, you might wake the neighbors with your whining. It's late here you know," I replied glancing at the clock and being shocked at just how late it really was. "Oh my. Have we really been talking for nearly two hours?"

"I could talk for another two. It beats doing paperwork," Alfred laughed and then sighed. "But if it's late there we can wrap it up."

"Well it's half past eleven. Do you think we could finish the interview in the next half hour? Or would you prefer if we rescheduled it to a later date?"

"What, no. Arthur, don't worry about it, the interview's over."

In that moment my heart sank. I thought the conversation had been going well but with just those few words Alfred dashed my hopes.

"I mean there's no need to continue. Your qualifications are impeccable, I set this whole thing up with every intention of hiring you. I just wanted to make sure you weren't an asshole or anything like that."

I didn't know what to say, so I mumbled the first thing that came to mind.

"So I have the job then?"

Alfred let out another one of his breathy laughs.

"Yes! Pack your bags, Arthur, you're moving to San Francisco!"

I needed to find my passport.


	2. Chapter 2

_Fakiagirl A/N:_ Fakiagirl here! I'll be writing the even chapters, which are from Alfred's perspective.

We got a couple of comments about Arthur being from Northern England and his accent because of it. Thanks for letting us know! I've listened to several YouTube videos of people from Northern England, and I really didn't have that much trouble understanding them. Alfred is occasionally given a Southern drawl in fanfiction while his "canon" voice is more Midwestern, so we're also giving Arthur a slightly different accent than his dub in the anime. As for his dialect, he has lived in some other parts of England, so perhaps he's lost some of it.

We hope you enjoy!

_Iggycat A/N:_ Don't forget to check out Fakiagirl's other stories! A link to her page is on my profile :)

* * *

I didn't grow up in San Francisco, but it felt like I did. My family lived in Berkeley, and my friends and I would go across the bay whenever we could. My first memory of San Francisco isn't of the Golden Gate Bridge; it is of the Bay Bridge, which lies so close to the surface of the bay you feel like you are driving on water.

I never really thought about what I was going to do when I grew up. I knew what I _wanted_ to do: be an astronaut, or a scientist, or maybe a lawyer. By the time I graduated from high school, I also knew where I wanted to do it: San Francisco. I had fallen in love with everything, from the steep streets to the fog that would come in off the ocean.

In college, I switched from major to major, torn between the desire to do something amazing—go to the moon, begin a tech startup—and do what I loved. My first history course decided for me, and soon I was preparing to enter my senior year as a history major.

Though I still had no idea what I wanted to do, anything having to do with literature had never occurred to me. Golden Gateway Publishing, then, seemed liked a strange choice for the first big company I worked for. "Big" is relative, as I found out when I walked in for my first day as a summer intern. It was a small, specialized place that had started out by publishing thin volumes that only made it onto the small press shelves of local bookstores. By the time my internship ended, it was beginning to make a name for itself.

I graduated from college, and while I was applying for jobs like crazy, Golden Gateway called me and offered me a part-time job. Part-time turned into full-time, and soon I was hired as an editor.

Two years later, I took a chance and decided to hire a man named Arthur from the UK.

* * *

It was like most Monday mornings: a little cold, a little foggy, and a little too early. I walked in the door of Golden Gateway Publishing holding a cup of coffee and stifling a yawn. The bell over the door tinkled as it closed behind me. "Hey, Gilbert," I said absently to the secretary.

"Hey, Alfie," he said with a grin. This was followed by an enthusiastic _cheep, cheep!_ from the yellow budgie on his shoulder.

I grinned back at it. I had always had a soft spot for animals. "Hello to you too, Gilbird."

Gilbert, with his white hair and startling red eyes, and the bright yellow bird on his shoulder made quite a pair. On his first day of work, Gilbert had walked in the door with the bird in a cage, sat behind his new desk, and opened the cage so the bird could sit on his shoulder. Despite my fellow editors' complaints (which mostly took the form of demands from Elizabeta and pointed looks from Roderich), Gilbird had not gone back in the cage since.

"Do I have any mail?" I asked.

"Nope."

"Cool. See you later." As I walked into the back of the building and down the hall that led to my office, I felt something niggling at the back of my mind. Wasn't there something special about today? Not able to remember what it could be, I shrugged and set down my laptop case on my desk. It was time to get to work.

Despite my attempts to concentrate, my mind kept wandering back to the cute British guy I had interviewed a month earlier. By "cute" what I really meant was . . . well, everything. It wasn't just his accent (which I kept replaying in my head); it had felt so natural to talk to him, like I had known him for years. "It's just because you didn't see his face," I muttered to myself as I made an attempt to read one of the new emails in my inbox for the second time. Everyone sounded good when they could present themselves however they wanted. But wasn't that the whole point? To never judge a book by its cover?

"It's just because what?" Elizabeta's voice asked. I looked up to see one of my fellow editors peering into my office. Liz had an amazing ability to detect what could even slightly be inferred as a reference to romance—not that that was the case here, obviously.

I sighed and deleted the email; on the third read-through, I had figured out it was just spam. "Never mind." Liz gave me a suspicious look, but she shrugged and left.

Would someone like Arthur even like it in California? I knew what it must look like outside. By now the fog would have burned off, and the sky would be blue with a few wisps of cloud. There might be a view of the ocean from the street if you got lucky. It sounded like paradise to me—but it was supposed to get into the high 80s today, and in August it wasn't uncommon for it to get above 100 degrees. If you drove out of the city limits, you'd find yourself among hills stripped of trees that were covered in dead grass. For the longest time, I had thought California was nicknamed the Golden State because that was the color of the hills for most of the year. Would Arthur be disappointed? Would he sit in his apartment, sweltering, and wish for that English rain he must know so well?

I knew what England—or at least London—looked like from movies and TV shows, and it was nothing like San Francisco. We didn't have red telephone booths or double-decker buses; we had cable cars and steep hills and a red bridge. Did he like animals? The zoo? Would he want to go for a walk through Golden Gate Park? I had no idea, and I didn't know if I would even get a chance to find out. It was a long way from England to the West Coast, and for all I knew, he would decide before he even boarded his flight that he would rather stay right where he was.

* * *

I was reading over the second draft of a manuscript on my laptop a few hours later when I heard the tinkle of the bell over the door. I liked to keep my office door propped open, but I still couldn't clearly hear what anyone said in the lobby unless they were talking unusually loudly. I kept reading as I heard Gilbert ask, "Really? Are you sure about that?" A moment later, I heard Gilbert's raucous laughter, and then, "Jeez, I don't think I've ever heard an accent like _that_ before."

"I'm English," I heard a voice say tersely and more loudly than before. I looked towards the lobby office. It couldn't be. Before Gilbert could torment the poor guy anymore, I stood up and headed for the lobby. I would recognize that voice anywhere. My heart was pounding and I felt excitement rise up in me as I realized that I was finally going to meet Arthur.

I had searched on Facebook for an "Arthur Kirkland" after interviewing him, and while I had gotten several hits, their photographs had indicated they were all too young or too old, or else they had lived in the wrong country. After that, I had spent a few weeks trying to piece together a guess of what Arthur would look like: a little like a young Paul McCartney, complete with the haircut, was my personal favorite. But the man in front of Gilbert's desk looked nothing like one of the Beatles. His messy blond hair made him look a little frazzled, and his dark eyebrows were drawn together in a frown. His long coat was unbuttoned, though he was probably still too hot. It had been cold in the morning, but the August heat was quickly warming up the building.

"Hey!" I exclaimed, and the man looked up in surprise. "Arthur, right?" I grinned. He stared at me. I realized he probably had no idea who I was, but before I could introduce myself, his eyes went wide.

"Alfred? I mean," he spluttered, "Mr. Jones."

I laughed. "No, you were right the first time. Remember, I told you to call me Alfred." I strode over to him, hands in my pockets.

"I'm sorry for being late," he said apologetically, but he had relaxed slightly.

"It's no problem. It's great to finally see you." We exchanged smiles at the small joke. I reached out a hand and he shook it firmly. His hand was cool and smooth. It _was_ great to finally see him; he looked more like what Arthur had seemed like than anything my imagination could have come up with. As I gazed into his eyes, I noticed they were very green.

"Wait," said Gilbert as I let go of Arthur's hand a little too slowly, "is this really the new intern you hired?" He laughed. "But he sounds so weird!"

"Now look here," started Arthur, frowning fiercely, but I interrupted him.

"He's from Northern England," I said proudly. I bit my lip to keep from adding, _Near Newcastle Upon Tyne_. I had a good memory, but even I was aware that would sound a little creepy. I smiled at Arthur. "Don't worry about Gilbert. He's like this with everyone. Come on, I'll show you around."

There wasn't exactly a lot to see in the small building, but I did what I could. Arthur peered into the other editors' offices curiously, and even Roderich gave him a small smile when I told him Arthur was the new intern. "We don't get a lot of new faces around here, so they might be a little too talkative at first," I confided to Arthur as we made our way towards my office. "If anyone asks you to get them a cup of coffee, don't do it—and by anyone, I mean Gilbert."

"I'm relieved to hear it," he said with a slight twitch of his lips that might have been a smile. "I was hoping I wouldn't have to find the nearest coffee shop on my first day."

I grinned. "You have no idea."

A horrified look crossed his face. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean—"

"No, it's fine! I was a college student doing it for no pay, so buying a little coffee was to be expected. As you can guess, not how you want to spend your time." I laughed. It hadn't helped that at the time, I had been having a small crisis about what I was going to do after graduation. "I remember the first day I got here, I had to reorganize a cabinet of invoices and receipts. After that, I spent hours filling out form rejection letters. There were definitely some Starbucks runs involved." I shook my head. "But seriously, we have a coffee machine in the break room. You're welcome to use it too." I looked at him just before we walked into my office. "I wouldn't put anyone through that."

My office wasn't much, just a room with a bookshelf and a desk that had a lot of paperwork piled on top of it. I'd bought the brass nameplate myself—"Alfred F. Jones," it said—but the National Parks calendar pinned to the wall had been free in the mail, and there wasn't much else in the way of decoration. I didn't even have a window, though all it would have given me was a view of the street. Nonetheless, it was my office, and I was proud of it.

"You'll be working with me," I told Arthur as he looked around. "Sorry, they were supposed to bring in an extra desk for you, but I guess they never got around to it."

"Will we be sharing your desk, then?" Arthur looked almost queasy. I looked at my desk again. There wasn't a whole lot of space. Actually, there wasn't really any space at all. Piles of paper teetered on one side, the middle was taken up by my laptop and my coffee cup, and the other side was covered with the manuscript I was currently working on and its accompanying pile of notes.

"Sorry about the mess," I said, flushing a little. I threw away my empty coffee cup and deposited the pile of miscellaneous papers in a corner; most of them needed to be recycled anyway. "I might not be as prepared as I should be. I kind of completely forgot today's Monday. The week has been passing by so slowly." I gave him a lopsided smile and he seemed to find my joke at least a little funny, because the corner of his mouth lifted upward.

"Coat hook's over there," I said, pointing to it. Arthur gratefully took off his coat and hung it up beside mine. Underneath, Arthur was wearing a suit and tie. I felt a little strange considering that I wasn't wearing a tie and my suit jacket was tossed over the back of my chair. He looked more professional than I did. He clearly noticed this, since he tugged at his tie a little. I hoped he didn't take it off; it made him look handsome and sharp, like he should be the CEO of something. I definitely wouldn't mind it if he got promoted above me, I decided. If he decided to stay here, of course.

I pushed the thought away. It was only his first day, and it was silly to worry about him leaving already. I moved aside another pile of papers and sat on the edge of my desk. "You know, I never asked: how was the flight?"

"It was . . . a little hectic, to be honest. And then I got lost on the way here." He sighed and ran his hand through his hair, messing it up further. "I've never been to the States before."

"Really? Huh."

Arthur gave me a look. "You shouldn't look so surprised. Have you ever been to England?"

"No," I admitted. I bit back a smile as Arthur gave me a smug look and continued with what he was saying.

"And then when your secretary told me that Golden Gateway hadn't hired any interns, I was certain I'd made a horrible mess of things and gotten the date or the name wrong. I don't think you can imagine how relieved I was to hear a familiar voice," he said. I coughed. It would probably be better to leave out the part where I had forgotten to tell Gilbert when Arthur started work. "To be honest, when you told me I got the job, I was worried someone else would be training me." As soon as he said the words, Arthur abruptly closed his mouth and glanced at me.

I held back a grin. He _wanted_ to work with me? "Nope," I said as I hopped off the desk. "I mean, I could have had someone else train you, but why would I want to?" We exchanged smiles. "Let me just grab the keys to storage so we can get you a chair."

Predictably, Liz was lurking outside my door. "You didn't tell us he was British," she said. "Where's he from? His accent's cute." She winked at me; clearly, that wasn't the only thing about him she thought was cute.

"Yeah, he seems like a nice guy," I said as if I hadn't heard her. We reached the lobby and I approached Gilbert, who was feeding Gilbird bits of bird seed. If Arthur thought my desk was messy, he must have thought Gilbert's was a disaster area. Liz had once confided in me that the only reason we kept him as secretary was that if we ever fired him, we'd never know how to find anything in the pile of papers and manuscripts that was his desk.

"Is the new guy going to get us coffee?" Gilbert asked me without looking away from the budgie, who was cheeping at him cheerfully. "I want a mocha."

Liz swatted at the back of his head, though he ducked out of the way. "Be nice."

"I need the keys to the storage closet to get Arthur started," I told him.

Gilbert finally looked up at me and grinned. "First-name basis already, are we?" Gilbird hopped off his finger onto his wrist and ran up his arm to his usual spot on Gilbert's shoulder. "I can tell this guy is special already." He sorted through a pile of paperclips and pens before holding up the keys. Liz reached for them, but he yanked them out of her reach. "No way. Only the awesome me gets to access the storage closet." He looked from Elizabeta back to me. "Hey, Alfred, how about I let you have the keys while I get a cup of coffee?"

Liz rolled her eyes, but when he stood up, she sat down in his seat with a sigh. "I'll watch for any customers," she said valiantly, and pulled out her phone.

"Thanks," I said, and I caught the keys when Gilbert tossed them to me. He walked off in the direction of the staff lounge while I headed back to my office to grab Arthur. When I walked into my office, Arthur looked up guiltily from where he had been inspecting the contents of my bookshelf. He flushed a little and hastily moved away.

"Do you see any books you like?" I asked, pausing in the doorway. I let the keys dangle from my fingers.

"Not very many ones I recognized, actually." He paused. "Not too many of the classics."

I hid a smile, amused at how polite he was being. No doubt he was trying to subtly tell me he didn't share my tastes. "What can I say? I like sci-fi."

He didn't seem bothered by it, though. He moved back to the shelf as if drawn to it. "Historical fiction too, I see." He trailed a finger down the spines of a few of the novels. He lingered on my Patrick O'Brian collection and I scratched the back of my head. I had bought them at a used bookstore during my first year of college before I had realized I had no money. Books with lots of technical naval vocabulary weren't normally something I enjoyed—I had never been able to get all the way through _Moby Dick_—but those books held a special place in my heart. _Master and Commander_ had gotten me through a bad breakup, as strange as it sounds.

"Yup, that was kind of my thing for a while."

He turned back to me and his eyes lit up with interest. "As a reader or an editor?"

"Both. That's what they set me up with when I first started here."

"Huh." Arthur looked thoughtful, finally seeming to relax. "Was that why you studied history, or a result of it?"

I brightened; he remembered that I'd mentioned that? "I'm not sure. I watched a lot of documentaries with my dad when I was younger, on the Vietnam War and things like that. I ended up reading some historical novels, but I kind of forgot about the history part until I got to college." I laughed at the memory. "I think I had this idea that if I liked something, I wasn't allowed to take it seriously."

He turned back to the bookshelf, but before he did I think I saw a smile. "I know the feeling."

I hesitated. I wasn't exactly protective of my books—it wasn't as if I had very many first editions, or anything like that—but they were kind of personal, you know? I had lent one out to a friend once, and it had come back dog-eared and covered in coffee rings. But I knew right then that I wanted Arthur to know me better, and I wanted him to like what he found. So I stepped up next to him and looked over the volumes with him. "If you ever wanted to," I said as casually as I could, "you could borrow one. Or a couple. Or whatever." I turned to him and grinned. "If you see anything you like."

This close, I could see that Arthur had a few freckles sprinkled over his nose. He blinked at me. Freckles and green eyes. That was it; I was a goner.

"That's very kind of you," he said politely. He smoothed down his hair with one hand, glanced away, and suddenly he was professional again. "Maybe later."

"Right. We should get back to work." I turned back to my desk wiping my sweaty palms on my pants. My ears grew hot. _Smooth, Alfred,_ I told myself as I tried to remember what we were supposed to be doing. "Oh, yeah. Did I ever get around to telling you what you're going to be doing here?"

"No, I don't believe so."

"Maybe I should do that." I smiled. "For the next week, you'll pretty much just be getting used to how things work. You'll sit in on meetings, do some intermediate emailing, write up summaries for book jackets and advertising, that kind of thing. You'll also help us narrow down the manuscripts we get sent for publication. Actually, I think that's what we'll start with today."

Arthur looked intrigued. "Really? Are you sure you don't want someone . . ." He hesitated. "Higher up in the company to do that?"

"Nah. It's not as high-pressure as it sounds." I smiled at him. "Most of these manuscripts have never been looked over before. We really have no idea if they're even legible or what they're about, especially since the summaries the authors' agents send us are pretty misleading and make everything sound like a bestseller. You'll read a little bit of each manuscript, and if they're clearly a lost cause, put them aside. If they seem salvageable, you'll read them all the way through and write up a summary. Then the editors pick a few of our favorites, we meet up to defend our choices, and we'll make the final decision. Maybe later you can pick a few to defend yourself. Just worry about the first stage for now. You only have to read a few pages of each manuscript, so it doesn't take that long."

"Not the whole book?" I shook my head. He raised his eyebrows slightly. "That hardly seems fair to the author, does it?"

"We don't have _time_ to be fair to the authors," I pointed out. He frowned. I laughed; when I had interned here myself, I had been as horrified as Arthur was about to be. "Come with me." I tossed the keys up and caught them in one hand, and then headed for the hallway.

I led him down the hall and stopped in front of the storage room. I unlocked the door, pushed it open, and flicked on the light. "This is where we keep the manuscripts."

Shoved up against one wall were spare chairs, lamps, and boxes of old books and files everyone had forgotten about. The rest of the space was taken up by metal shelves that were filled with manuscripts.

It was not a small room.

"Oh," said Arthur as he glanced at the manuscripts.

"Yeah, and this probably doesn't even include the ones we just got in last week. Gilbert's a little lazy about opening the mail sometimes." I grabbed a pile from the top of the nearest stack and hefted it in my arms. "This should be enough to get you started." Arthur picked out a chair and we made our way back to my office. I passed by the lobby and tossed Liz the keys, which she caught after only glancing up from her phone. Of course Gilbert wasn't back yet. I rolled my eyes and followed Arthur back to my office.

When we got back, I set the manuscripts down on Arthur's half of the desk. He rolled over his chair and sat down in front of the manuscripts with a wary expression on his face. I pulled my own desk chair over to his and sat down beside him. "This part of the process is pretty straight forward. If you're ever unsure of whether to keep it or not, you can ask one of us to give you a second opinion, or just throw it in the 'keep' pile to be safe."

"What should I be looking for?" He took the first manuscript off the stack and flipped through it curiously.

I leaned forward and shrugged. "Mostly, just a good book. But we are a small company, and we're proud of it. We aren't just looking for bestsellers. While you're reading, you should be asking the author, 'What's your story, and why are _you_ the one telling it?' If it looks like something anyone could write, we'd rather pass."

He was looking at me as though that was the last thing he had expected me to say. Then his expression softened and he smiled—just a wry twist of his lips, but it was a more genuine smile than he had given me earlier, and one that made his whole face light up. "As I have read my fair share of cheap novels, I think I'll at least be able to recognize those."

I grinned back, my gaze lingering on his eyes for just a moment too long. I couldn't believe I had missed that smile during our interview. I already knew I wanted to see him smile again—and what, I wondered, would his laugh sound like? "Great. Then let's get started."

I worked with him on the first few, just to make sure he got the hang of it. He read fast and kept fiddling with his fingers as he read, as if he were itching to start editing the manuscript right then and there. He looked alarmed when I told him we only read a few pages at the beginning and a few in the middle of each story before deciding its fate, but when he saw how badly written some of the submissions were, he relaxed. It didn't take long until he was reading through the pages with confidence.

After the first three, I pushed the rest of the stack towards him. "They're all yours," I told him. He looked slightly doubtful, but he nodded and picked up the next manuscript.

I rolled myself back over to my half of the desk and woke up my laptop. As it whirred back to life, I watched Arthur out of the corner of my eye. He was frowning at the manuscript in his hands in concentration. His eyebrows, which were normally hidden by his bangs, peeked out from under his hair with the force of his frown. It was . . . okay, it was adorable. I smiled a little to myself and turned my attention back to my laptop.

I had a new message in my inbox. It was from Bella, one of my current authors. I winced; I had emailed her earlier about some "slight changes" I suggested she should make to the ending of her novel, and this wasn't going to be a pleasant conversation. With the relaxing sound of Arthur turning a page or two in the background, I quickly got preoccupied with work. When I thought to check on him again, almost an hour had gone by.

He had a pencil in one hand, and every now and then he would make a mark on the page, biting his lip as he did so. I could have sworn he had only just pulled a new manuscript off the stack, but he was already ten or so pages into it. Hold on;_ ten or so pages?_ I leaned back in my chair. "Hey, Arthur?"

"Yes?" he said absently. He was clearly in the middle of reading a sentence, and it took him a moment to look up.

I smiled. "Whatchya doing?"

He guilty closed the manuscript. "Reading the first few pages."

I chuckled. "By the first few, I really meant just the first two."

He sighed. "I know, but . . ."

I held out a hand. "Can I see?"

He handed over the manuscript reluctantly. I flipped to the first page. There were little pencil marks scribbled here and there. I looked at him. "Have you been . . . correcting their grammar?"

"Old habits die hard," he mumbled. His cheeks looked a little pink.

I grinned. "Right, I forgot. Well, if this one makes it to the final stage, our copyeditors won't complain. What do you think of it?" I looked at the title page: _One Thing Went Right_, the bold font proclaimed.

"I . . . like it. It takes place during the Second World War." Arthur coughed a little. "It's a love story, I think."

"Hmm. The title would need to be changed, though," I mused. "Something a little shorter . . ." I looked at him. He was watching me intently, and he was fiddling with the pencil he was holding between his fingers. He seemed . . . nervous? "If you say it's good, I trust you," I told him, and handed it back. He put it in the pile of ones he wanted to keep.

"That's the last one."

"Really?" I asked in surprise. I looked at the clock. It was past noon. The time had really gone by fast. I chewed on my lip. It wasn't exactly time for my lunch break, but it was close enough, and Arthur deserved a break. "What do you say to some lunch?"

He sighed. "That would be lovely."

I stood up and he did the same, but he hesitated by the desk. "Would I be able to take a few of these home?" he asked, nodding at the manuscripts—the pile he had rejected, not the pile he had already accepted. "There are a few I'm unsure about, and I'd like to read them all the way through, if I can."

"You want to do that?" I blurted out. "I mean, we're paying you to do that here. I don't think we'll be able to pay you overtime for doing it at home instead."

He nodded and looked at me earnestly. "I know."

Liz would probably hit me over the head with a copy of our rules and regulations later, but I smiled. "If that's what you want to do, go ahead. I'm sure the authors would appreciate it."

"I know I would," he said quietly. He suddenly looked towards my office door. "Oh, I was wondering, is there—?"

"A bathroom? Yeah, just down the hall." I pointed him in the right direction and he disappeared. I shrugged on my jacket and closed my laptop. I started for the door, but then I paused and went back to my desk. I picked up the manuscript Arthur had liked so much and flipped it open to a random page. It was littered with little pencil marks—a comma here, a period there. I ran my thumb over the edge of the manuscript and smiled. He had, of course, crossed out "aluminum" and replaced it with _aluminium_ in neat, tight cursive. I liked his handwriting; it was a little scratchy, but it had character.

Liz poked her head through the doorway. "So? Are you going to keep him?"

I closed the manuscript and placed it back in its pile. I looked up at her and grinned. "Definitely."


	3. Chapter 3

_Iggycat A/N:_ Hello! I hope you're liking the story so far. Just as a reminder, the odd chapters will be written by me and will be told from Arthur's perspective. The even chapters will be written by Fakiagirl (link in my profile!) and will be told from Alfred's perspective. We hope you enjoy!

* * *

As strange as it sounds, the first word that came to mind after meeting Alfred was 'dog.' But there was no negative connotation with that word. No, it didn't come to mind because Alfred was dirtied or his hair was tousled, rather what I was thinking of was the ecstatic look on a dog's face when its owner returns from a day's work. The pet always seems to have an expression of sincere elation, and that's what I saw on Alfred's face. He gave the impression that he was genuinely glad to see me, and that was something I'd never experienced with a coworker before.

"So what kinda food do you like?" Alfred asked as I returned from the toilet. He was perched over his laptop, likely finishing an email or saving a file before lunch. When finished he leaned back up to full height and I was again struck by just how tall he was. Six foot three? Six foot four? Whatever the measurement, it seemed to dominate my five foot eleven.

"Do you like Indian food? There's a bunch of ethnic restaurants around SF," Alfred piped up, and my eyes bolted open when I realized I'd been staring. This first day was certainly turning out dreadful. I'd already proved incompetent by showing up late this morning, and the last thing I wanted to do was make a mockery of myself by forgetting to speak.

"Of course," was all my mind provided, but it was enough. Alfred grinned as he straightened his coat, some sort of aviation jacket, and handed me my own wool coat.

"Great, cause I'm a-hungerin' for some butter chicken."

I followed him out, past a distracted Gilbert very conspicuously on his phone. For I moment I wondered why on earth Golden Gateway would keep such a slob as a secretary, but I pushed the thought aside. I couldn't start judging people on the first day. If I did, how on earth would I make it through working here?

Alfred propped the glass door open with his toe and motioned me through. I nodded a thank you as I stepped into the chilly San Francisco air. If there was one thing that surprised me about this town, it was the weather.

"I thought California was supposed to be hot," I mumbled mostly to myself, but it was quickly apparent that Alfred had heard me. There was a chuckle directly to my right and I turned to find him laughing.

"You know, it seems a lot of people think that, but it's really just the southern portion that's known for the sun and palm trees," he explained to me, not sounding the least bit annoyed that I apparently made a very common, and stupid, mistake. "San Diego, L.A., they're warm, but up here it never gets overwhelmingly hot thanks to the Bay."

I couldn't help but feel a little embarrassed at my error, even if it had never been meant for anyone's ears but my own. Now I'd gone and made myself look silly again in the presence of my new boss, who as luck would have it, was a native of the area. But for all my mistakes, Alfred still had a smile spread across his lips when I dared to glimpse over at him. Either this man was extremely kind and optimistic, or I was lucky enough to catch him on a good day.

"Mhm," Alfred said as he made some rather loud sniffing sounds. "Those gyros smell delicious."

I turned to my left, scanning the shop fronts, expecting to see some type of Mediterranean restaurant, but found nothing but a pharmacy and an electronics store.

"Oh, ha! They're over here, Arthur," Alfred said, pointing just to his right, where on the curb sat a large silver and white lorry, painted with what looked like Greek columns.

"Don't tell me you've never seen a food truck," he said with a look of what can only be described as dismay. "Do they not have them in England?"

I took a moment to process Alfred's question, but I couldn't bring up any images of a lorry handing out meals anywhere in England.

"I don't recall ever seeing one in Manchester," I said at long last and I could swear a look of pain flashed across his face.

"Well, one day we'll have to try one," Alfred commented. "I almost always get lunch at the food trucks, but I thought I'd treat you to something a bit nicer today."

As if Alfred had planned this, he uttered the last word right as we arrived in front of a small restaurant called Tandoor Palace. Gorgeous dark red curtains covered the windows, but before I could get a better look, Alfred ushered me in saying, "Smells good already."

As we stepped in, I had to take a moment to pause and just look at the decor. Various Indian paintings hung on the wall, and everything was bathed in so much color, I felt out of place in my black suit.

Alfred requested someplace quiet and the waiter led us to a small, round table in the corner of the restaurant. I took the seat closer to the back wall and Alfred sat down across from me. We both kindly took a menu from the waiter, but Alfred immediately put his down, already knowing what he would be having.

Five minutes later the two of us had ordered, and I sat awkwardly squeezing a bit of lemon into my water just to have something to do with my hands. Alfred was casually sipping at a soda, but even with such a relaxed atmosphere, my nerves suddenly started to get the best of me and I realized the enormity of the situation. I was eating lunch with my boss. The man who hired me, but who could just as easily fire me. I forced myself to sit up straighter, look presentable.

"Arthur?" Alfred asked me just a second later, his voice laced with concern. That didn't reassure me in the slightest and I still felt incredibly on edge as I glanced up to find him looking worried.

"Arthur, I can tell that you still seem kind of antsy today, and whether it's because it's your first day, or it's me-" Alfred started, but I immediately cut him off.

"It's not you. You've been nothing but kind to me," I told him, which was true. He offered me a small smile but still didn't seem convinced.

"Well, I'm glad it's not me, and I'll just chalk it up to being first day jitters, but I really do wish you would calm down."

I honestly didn't know what to say to that. Instead of responding I simply sat still, but that did not elicit a content reaction from Alfred.

"Really, Arthur, relax," he said as he reached across the table and put a hand on my shoulder in an attempt to calm me. "I like you, okay? So don't go thinking that I'm gonna fire you right off the bat," he smiled, squeezing my shoulder. "Unless of course you use the Xerox to photocopy your ass or something, but I just don't see you doing that."

He laughed and then grinned at me, a sweet and reassuring grin that somehow managed to take a load off my shoulders. I let a small chuckle escape at his joke as well, and slowly the tense wall I'd built up around myself dissipated.

"I think Gilbert would be much more likely to be caught doing something like that."

Alfred smiled and laughed in agreement. All at once I was flooded with memories of our Skype conversation and I pondered how I even managed to get myself so worked up in the first place. There was no reason to feel anything but at ease around Alfred.

* * *

The rest of the day went much smoother, and by its end I was on much better terms with Alfred. Even though I was his intern, Alfred never acted like I was below him. True to his word, I was not sent out for coffee even when Gilbert begged and pleaded.

"You're sure you wanna do this?" Alfred asked as I placed a small stack of manuscripts into my briefcase. I'd picked a select few that I thought might hold some promise, but that potential wasn't accurately reflected in their first few pages.

"Quite sure," I told him for what must have been at least the third time. Perhaps what I was doing was unorthodox, but I really did feel I owed it to the aspiring authors to give them a real chance.

I buckled the case's worn leather straps, and took my coat when Alfred handed it to me.

"How do you get home?" he asked as he buttoned his sports jacket and threw his leather coat over his arm.

Now that was a good question. I wish I'd been able to answer him directly, but part of the reason I was so ridiculously late this morning was that I couldn't find the train station.

"Well, I'm meant to take the Bart, but I think I may have gotten off at the wrong station this morning because I was walking for rather a long time." I didn't add the fact that I wasn't used to San Francisco's hilly streets and was out of breath after only a few blocks.

"Where did you get off?" Alfred ventured cautiously, and I force myself not to be embarrassed as I replied.

"Uhm, I think it was 24th Street Mission."

"24th Street?!" Alfred all but yelled in surprise. "Christ, Arthur that's like 20 blocks away."

"Yes, well I realized that after I got off this morning," I countered and then tried to defend myself. "I'd looked up the correct station last night. It was by a library, I remember. But I must've been nervous or distracted this morning, and I was worried I'd overshoot the station, but instead I-"

"You got off way too early," Alfred finished the sentence for me and I just smiled sheepishly at him. "I'll walk you to Civic Center, that's the closest stop. I don't want you to get lost again and be walking around town all night."

And that's exactly what Alfred did, even though halfway through the walk I learned that he drives into town and that the garage, and his car, were in the complete opposite direction of the station. I told him there wasn't really any need to escort me, but he insisted that he make sure I at least get to the closest station. He said I would have done the same if we'd been in Manchester.

After standing for a few minutes, Alfred asking all types of questions on if I knew where I was going or if I knew what line to get on, finally we said goodbye and I headed back to my new flat. Once there, I picked up something frozen from the convenience store about a block away and then made my way back to my tiny room.

I pulled out the first manuscript as my chicken Alfredo warmed in the microwave and began to read. I'll be the first to admit the first three to four pages needed work. They didn't grab me like they needed too. They failed to excite, and if I'd been a customer, I wouldn't have been enraptured and bought the book, but would have easily returned it to the shelf. But that's not to say that there wasn't something there. I continued reading, and reading and I was about 40 pages in when I realized I'd left my food in the microwave.

It was easy enough to multitask. I pierced a broccoli crown and shoved it in my mouth as I continued, now very intrigued by the story of a firefighter and his respite after an accident left his leg burned and broken. He'd traveled to London and met a mysterious man there, who claimed to be an author. Fascinated, I read on, only occasionally stopping to correct a grammatical error, or write a small comment in the margin.

By midnight, I'd finished the book, and was very glad I'd decided to give it an extra chance. The story itself was brilliant, a tale of trust, love, and recovery, but it really forced me to think about all the other manuscripts; the ones that perhaps weren't so lucky as to receive a full read through, but still held beautiful tales and messages inside.

"It's such a shame," I said to no one in particular as I returned the manuscript to my briefcase, and emptied my mug of the last few drops of cold tea.

For a brief moment as I lay in bed, just before I fell asleep, I thought of what an intimate thing a manuscript really is. I'd never really considered it before, but with a manuscript you're telling a story, your story, and you're surrendering it to a publishing firm in the hopes that they'll like it and that you'll be able to share your world with others. A manuscript is someone's naked, raw, unedited work and with it they're entrusting someone like me or Alfred to pass judgment on such personal words.

I remember considering whether or not I would be able to send in a manuscript if I ever wrote one, and ultimately decided, that no, I didn't have the courage or trust in others to be able to do that. My words would forever remain private, just like the dreams that I slowly slipped into.

* * *

I woke to the sound of some trashy pop song the following morning. Even though I wasn't required to be at the office until 9:30, I had set my alarm to 5 AM just to make absolutely certain that there would be no chance of me turning up late again. This time around I would leave plenty of time in case I got lost... possibly 20 blocks lost.

After showering and eating a quick breakfast of toast and marmalade, I set out and successfully arrived at Golden Gateway by 7:00. I'd managed to get off at the correct station and quickly retraced the steps Alfred and I had taken last night. I was so proud of the fact that I'd made it on time, I wasn't even bothered by the fact that no one else had yet arrived... or the fact that I was locked out in the cool San Francisco breeze until someone with a key did turn up.

I bundled myself up, burrowing my nose into my upturned lapels to keep it warm. Within the hour Gilbert rolled in, only turning to me to say, "Thanks for guarding the place, Rudolph." I supposed the attempt to keep my nose toasty had failed.

I did my best not to pay heed to the secretary as he held the door open, laughing boisterously. Walking briskly past him, I made my way to Alfred's office, which thank God, was unlocked. Whether all the offices in the building were unlocked, or Alfred just liked the 70's "no barrier" attitude, I wasn't sure, but I quickly let myself in and took a seat in the black swivel chair Alfred had brought in for me the day before. I pulled out a new manuscript and made myself look busy in the hopes that Gilbert would not bother me again.

"First you take home manuscripts, and now you're getting here early? You really are the perfect worker."

I swiveled, in my swivel chair, and found Alfred in the doorway, his laptop case between his legs as he removed his jacket. Underneath he was wearing a stunning navy suit with golden cuffs, a simple white dress shirt, and an alternating stripped tie of burgundy and dark blue. I struggled not to gape as I glanced from him back to myself in my much less impressive outfit which consisted of black slacks and a matching black waistcoat. After I seemingly overdressed yesterday, I'd made a point to wear something simpler today, but clearly that backfired.

"Navy suits you," I blurted out before I really had time to process the thought.

"Wow, and you compliment too!" Alfred said with a laugh as he hung up his coat and placed his laptop bag on his desk. "How is it you were ever unemployed?"

A shy smile escaped as I registered Alfred's flattery. I was grateful for the fact that he did not pursue my comment further, but just took it in stride. Had he questioned me, I honestly don't know what I would have said.

Once Alfred was settled, I returned to the manuscript I was currently working on, but not for long.

"In all seriousness, how's it going? You getting used to the office?" he asked as he dug into his bag and revealed a donut. I took a moment to think that one over, unlike my last comment, and finally settled on something to say as Alfred bit into the pastry and powdered sugar was sent flying.

"Doubleplusgood."

He looked at me with a quirked brow as I handed him a napkin that had been invading my half, or more like third, of the desk.

"Thanks," he mumbled just before wiping his mouth, but he was staring at me with a look of confusion. "Brave New World?" he guessed, as he folded his napkin and removed any stubborn sugar specks from his lips.

"_1984_, but good guess," I replied. "I'm surprised you haven't read that one."

"Would you recommend it?" he asked in an unwavering voice, and I was surprised at such a swift change in tone. Was Alfred truly that interested in my opinion?

"Well, yes. Especially for someone like you who so dearly loves historical fiction. It is a dystopian novel but there are several allusions to Stalin and whatnot, that I think you might enjoy."

Without a moment's notice the stern eyes were gone, replaced with Alfred's usual carefree appearance.

"Great. I'll have to pick it up then."

I nodded and tried not to think much more of it. Alfred worked for a publishing firm; of course he'd be serious about books.

Once our conversation had died down, I let my eyes wander back to a new manuscript, and slowly became absorbed in the new world. At some point I pulled out the story I'd been reading last night and eagerly told Alfred of its promise. He seemed more interested in me than the story though, only asking questions along the lines of "Why did you like it?" and replying with a shake of his head and, "Of course. That's just like you." I wanted to reply that he really didn't know what was "just like me" seeing as he'd known me less than a week, but I didn't risk it.

When that topic also exhausted itself, I returned to reading and Alfred busily typed away on his computer. I only engaged with him every once in a while when he asked a question, or more likely, told me some sort of awful pun.

"Hey Arthur," he said, sliding me a piece of paper. "Ask me this."

I took the small scrap in my hands and cautiously read out: "Alfred, do you like Kipling?"

"I don't know," he replied with a massive grin. "I've never Kipled."

I shook my head and tossed the paper in the bin, but there was no doubt I was smiling.

"You're terrible."

"I know," he answered, acknowledging the fact that the jokes were bad, but at the same time, letting me know that he had no plans to stop telling them.

"What would you say to some coffee?" Alfred asked just before he lost my attention. I glanced at the clock and saw that it was 2:30. We still had quite a ways to go so I figured some caffeine couldn't hurt.

We covered up and left the building, Alfred leading the way to the nearest Starbucks. Once there I ordered a regular cappuccino and Alfred ordered something with so many Macchiatos and Chinos tacked onto the end of it, I doubted if it even contained any coffee at all. In the end he came away with a concoction that had both steamed milk and whipped cream, chocolate powder decorating the top. He stopped to grab a sugar packet before we sat down, and I must have sent him such an incredulous look that he just laughed and said, "Ha, yeah I know. Sometimes I even like a little coffee in my sugar."

There was one unoccupied plush seat in the corner of the store that Alfred insisted I take, and so he pulled up a wooden chair to sit next to me. We sat, calmly sipping at our respective drinks, chatting all the while.

"So did you have to leave anyone special in England? You know, besides your family," Alfred inquired as he licked some of the sugar-dairy mixture from his lips. He paused to look at me for just a moment before returning to his beverage.

"No, no one in particular," I remarked, because it was true. The closest thing I had to a friend was Francis but he went back to France years ago.

"What? No one?" he asked, unconvinced, but I just nodded in return and repeated myself.

"Not a soul."

"Well, those Englishmen and women are missing out," he said and then in the time it takes to blink, something happened. Alfred's eyes flashed and he nearly choked on his drink as whatever it was took hold of him.

"Arthur, do you have any plans for the weekend?" he asked after clearing his throat.

"Uhm, none that can't be rescheduled," I replied, because I really didn't want to tell Alfred my Saturday plans revolved around ringing my Mum.

"Great! Then what would you say to letting me show you around the city? We could hit up Fisherman's Wharf and maybe something else."

What did I say to that?

"Sure."


End file.
